Growing up, it was foreign land—
to me, yet, it was favored by all,
a magic kingdom of food and warmth,
a homework headquarters.
It had a coal stove for heat and
cooking. Mom (sometimes Dad) did laundry
there with a wringer machine filled and emptied by hose,
when new to the tribe, I was bathed in that sink,
perhaps after laundry and dishes were done.
Later in life it was (and still is) wife’s land.
Maybe it’s sexist, but barefoot in
the kitchen was her idea.
Actually, it was all her house
where we all lived. At home,
it was where the core of many lives
transpired—in the kitchen.
Meetings, parties, family dinners,
games and puzzles, some business.
It was our mother-ship’s headquarters.
When between jobs, I was given
the helm of house to navigate;
cooking, cleaning, laundry,
paying bills, and giving some homework
help. Dropping off, picking up,
taking to kid’s thingies. For a dad,
I believe I made a passable mom.
But the jury remains out.
Now those kids are gone
to their own kitchens,
it’s still the same in our lovely
(if mostly empty) nest. It’s her kitchen,
somewhere in the middle of
Texas. I don’t really
cook but would like to. I am the
dish washer, maybe replaced now
by a newer and quieter, a younger one
with fingerprint proof silver skin.
No man has ever been murdered
while doing the dishes. Perhaps I
should be worried and observant,
or apply for the position of official
dishwasher loader and unloader.
It’s not my kitchen and it never will be.
Perhaps the laundry room?
Household poet laureate is a good job,
I eat well, and the beer is cold.
Look both ways, near and far.
There will always be gaps, in love and lust,
but in the kitchen, it’s Mom we trust.
She sees the world as a vicious enemy,
Life as a sober and hostile battle,
Love a means to an end,
Hate as the honest emotion,
Antipathy to the horizon.
***
Look both ways in life's blinding bowl of cherries.
Mind the poisonous gaps.
July was an interesting month, if a bit too hot. But, I can smell August. It ain’t pretty. July has a favorite holiday of many, a few cool birthdays, and it is fittingly mid-summer. It has long days, the baseball all-star break, Wimbledon Tennis, chiggers, maybe mosquitoes, the end of the feverish NBA forever season, and other cool stuff.
While writing a poem each day was no more difficult in July than any of the previous six months, it has become something I just do each day. Yesterday’s one became three. I’ve written at all hours: very early mornings (middle of the night), mid-everything, noon, dinner time, evening, late at night, and just before midnight. I have a small cache of ideas, although prompts are plentiful, and I am seldom wanting.
I polish and post some daily ditties. Most are first drafts that get no additional attention for months, if ever. Concurrently, I’m trying to cull out poems for a potential book I may self-publish. I hope I have been sufficiently vague. I don’t know how to get from here to there. Killing darlings has been a difficult task. It may take months for me to crop out a worthy collection.
Thus, I plan to reduce semiweekly postings on Our Literary Journey to weekly, and the same for Dispassionate Doubt, which has been mostly one post a week anyway. But who knows?
I filled one notebook with poems from January 1st through July 11th and started a new one. Here are the titles of July Poems:
July (the month)
The Jaded Eye
Shamed Pride
Drinkable Wine
Today’s Poem
Petrichor
Enthrall*
The Sun
Hold My Karma and Watch This
The Last Page
Free to Let Go
Grimace*
Five Year Plan
Impassible Sad
Were Gods Somewhere
Sensuous Perception
Narcissus at the Gym
The Creators (moms)
The Ring (the hand kind, not the doorbell)
Layers of Identity*
In the Poet’s Hand
Hushed Me Plumb Up
Unthinkable
Press Pause
Something is Dead
Green River
I Think it was a Saturday
The Long Gray Mullet
Edible Confession
Dog Poop
Time is Coming Over
(* were written from prompts. 7, 12, and 26 were posted.)
Look both ways as you traverse nature’s toilet.
Some poopers don’t have owners to clean up after them.
Mind the gaps or press pause.
Like when Dick Clark used to ask the American Bandstanders, What did you like about that song?
It’s music, Dick—don’t over analyze it
—and it is rock at that.
When Fogerty sings Green River
and I hear it
and I feel it
and yes—it takes me back,
not to a place or to a person, but to
a feeling. A condition of my
soul, walking a lonely road at night
barefoot girls dancing, it
seemed so right, the moon
at night.
On the inside a feeling makes me
want to want more,
inside me
a then that defies the reality of a now,
I dance cuz I feel, I sing cuz
I am going back to Green River.
I feel who I am—like
a slightly cracked shell over a sweet feeling that
was my Green River.
I remember things I love,
the sights, the sounds,
the smells and the tastes.
Now I love how it feels
when old John and Cody
take me home to a feeling—
to my Green River.
Look both ways along the river of time. Mind the gaps, bullfrogs hide there.
In the doctor’s office—
a computer, printer,
some chairs, and an exam
table we won’t use;
latex gloves, a biohazard
box, and two other waste cans;
a sink that may get used.
On the wall a framed art print.
Voices in the hall 20 minutes
after my appointed time, but it’s
okay. I can write this poem
and be glad I’m alive. Knock.
Two doctors walk in. My regular guy
and his knockout resident from
the A&M med school. We greet,
shake, talk small, then good news.
Return in six months. Shake again.
I drive home. Stop for gas.
I wear a smile—cuz good news.
Look both ways driving home, for good news and bad.
Check the tires and mind the gaps.
Doctors sure have changed over the years—for the mo’ betta’.
I can’t always do it. I would never be openly showy or make any form of art before an audience. I don’t think I could. Challenges or prompts during writing group meetings and a few online are the most I can do in social settings where people know me. Other than that, my writing is a solitary effort, although I’m not exactly the poster boy of the garret-imprisoned scribe. I do write in coffee shops, libraries, parks, waiting or dining rooms, and even during my morning walks. But usually I write at this desk on this laptop.
Yet, I have times of emotional outburst writing. At least one reader seems to know or recognize exactly when that happens. I love the experience, and I find satisfaction when I read my scribble after the excitement has passed. If I can let go of something within me, an inner editor, judge, or critic, I like what happens. I feel so free. It’s about emotionally letting go of something.
I don’t listen to music when I read or write. I can only tolerate classical type without being distracted. I am not sure how it would work. I may try it sometime.
In order to give you an example for what I have in mind, I did some research on a well-known artist who I am familiar with. Well, I thought I was. Nothing about the art is independent of the artist—not the form, method, appeal, depth, or reputation.
Jonas Gerard of Ashville, TN, puts on an impressive show. The personal emotion he displays in making his art is the poster for explaining how I sometimes want to write, especially poetry. I have been to his studio, I have talked to him and several of his assistants, and I bought some of his work.
The youtube video below is an example of what I mean (he did a number of these). The vision of personal emotion (fake or real) is inspiring. But, artist or not, apparently old Jonas (he’s 78 or so) has had issues with untoward behavior (sexual harassment, maybe assault) in his past. I never put this guy on a pedestal or thought of him as anything more than a cool modern artist. Yet, I’m disappointed, angry, and confused. Because of what I learned, I considered not writing this piece or posting it.
But this is about me and I agree with what he says in the video about fear.
I want to write with emotional vigor displayed by Jonas Gerard when he paints. I want to let go, as he mentions. I love it when I can let go. It’s the temporary feeling and process I enjoy. The product, like all writing, will outlive the writer.
Look both ways. Every saint has a past, every sinner has a future.
Mind the gaps but dismiss excuses.
We are in denial
about
Life and Time
and thoughts
and memories
that die
when we die,
about reality and
feelings &
rockets and
space and
energy and
pompous
assholes
and Love.
Look again, both ways. One more time.
Denial is fantasy.
Gaps undeniably exist. Mind them.
it’s nine o’clock at night again. some are dressing to go out, not me—too tired.
too tired for anything but sleep, yet, here I sit
writing this poem about being too tired to do anything,
including write this fucking ridiculous poem
or prose or whatever the hell it is.
it’s absurd to fight off sleep like this, like a child fighting the inevitable,
but if I give in now, I will wake at two or three in the morning,
in the middle of the night, flummoxed.
I’ll sit here and drink water (after I pee); wishing I was sleeping.
maybe there’s an unused nightmare out there waiting for me,
to give inspiration or whatever nightmares do for us.
why? tell me why. I want to know why it is that I will try for a few more minutes
to pretend that I can…what? what can I do?
is there a world full of people out there who cannot
or will not do what I can do?
bless their hearts as the conceited among us write away
nodding at the overstuffed closet.
who needs competition from hidden talent?
right here and right now, exhausted with limited cognitive ability to crank
one out by jerking off my brain and spewing words to the page and saying,
fuck yah, man! a poet. I write this sputum. so what?
it turns out that how I feel and what I say, I am—
and you are too—holy shit, that is exactly how I feel!
am I pissed off about nothing? just fucked up and angry
for the very reason of no reason. we need help. are we crazy?
it sucks for me and I’m sorry it sucks for you, but it’s so fucking true.
it’s us. not me alone. not you alone. misery love, love, loves company.
that’s how it works to be human. nothing can save us except writing.
Look both ways. It’s the middle of the night and every form of refuge has its prison.
Mind the gaps and the sidewalk cracks for the want to—the reason of no reason.
Our Literary Journey 